


Day 7: Smut/Kink/Implied Sex

by likethedirection



Series: Sheriarty 30 Day Challenge 2016 [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Breathplay, Edging, Established Relationship, Honestly just straight-up smut, M/M, Overstimulation, PWP, Sex Toys, Sheriarty 30 Day Challenge, dom/sub dynamic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-26 20:04:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7588195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likethedirection/pseuds/likethedirection
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It started with a conversation and a dare.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Day 7: Smut/Kink/Implied Sex

**Author's Note:**

> You've had some sadness (or will have it next, if you're reading this series in order), so have some shameless porn!
> 
> Written for the [Sheriarty 30 Day Challenge](http://sincerelyjimlock.tumblr.com/post/146926763135/sheriarty-30-day-challenge) on Tumblr. :)

It started with a conversation and a dare.  Jim mentioning Sherlock’s ‘code name’ offhand, and Sherlock taking issue.

_Even if it refers to attitude over experience, I hardly suit the title of Virgin anymore,_ he had argued.

Jim had given him a wicked smirk.

_Prove it._

And here they are.

Jim was firmly against being tied up or handcuffed, but this seems to be working well.  Sherlock is mildly concerned about the state of his scarf, looped around the headboard and clutched white-knuckled in Jim’s hands, but the concern flits away like everything else that is not _this_.

Jim is breathing heavily, gleaming with sweat from thirty-four minutes of experimental stimulation, the muscles of his bare chest and arms straining as he tugs on the scarf, his eyes half lidded and dilated so very wide.  His legs are splayed open, the ring still firmly in place at the base of his flushed cock where it has been for the last twenty minutes, his bollocks hanging dark and heavy below it while Sherlock works his fingers slowly and steadily in and out.  Over the last ten minutes he has talked less, moaned more, whispered the occasional curse with his head falling back.

Sherlock has not been edging him, exactly, but rather experimenting, touching him everywhere decimeter by decimeter, working out the locations of each of Jim’s erogenous zones and then teaching himself to play them as he’d play his violin.  Whenever he’s stumbled upon one - he knows because Jim’s breath does the most interesting thing, a little involuntary shudder that Sherlock has become a bit obsessed with drawing out - he’s taken his time there, learning.  Jim likes hands on his neck, not just fingertips but enough weight to press on his windpipe.  Long kisses to his stomach quicken his breath.  Teeth on the inside of his right thigh are best, but must be paired with firm hands on his hips, because he will thrash.  Once he worked out that one, Sherlock stayed there experimenting for quite a long time, until Jim was shaking everywhere and his moans were nearly sobs.

In between, he’s worked his way back up Jim’s body to kiss him properly, to kiss him deeply, to kiss him until he’s not shaking quite so hard.  Sherlock is mindful of their dynamic.  Jim trusts no one with this much power over him, but he’s trusting Sherlock.  That is not insignificant.

So he’s kissed him, on his mouth and his jaw and his forehead, the latter of which consistently makes Jim close his eyes as though there is too much inside him that wants to spill out of them, and he has returned to his work.

He carefully scissors his fingers, and a quiet grunt punctuates Jim’s deliberately deep and steady breaths.  His eyes have closed, and Sherlock observes him, pressing an idle kiss to his hip.  Jim’s hair is irreparably mussed, his chest rising and falling and straining, his lips parted.  He looks beautiful.  Sherlock keeps his eyes on him as he pulls his two fingers mostly out, then pushes three fingers slowly back in, stretching him a bit more, and admires the angle of Jim’s eyebrows drawing together, his mouth dropping further open, his head tipping back a bit more and further baring his throat.

Sitting up on his knees, Jim’s pelvis pulled a bit into his lap, Sherlock continues shallowly pumping his fingers in and out and reaches forward with his free hand, wrapping his fingers loosely around Jim’s cock and earning a gasp.  Jim’s eyes flutter open, then briefly squeeze shut again as though adding visual stimulation to everything else is just too much.  Slowly circling the leaking head with his thumb, Sherlock murmurs, “All right?”  Jim pries his eyes open again, and Sherlock specifies, “Any numbness, cold sensations--”

“ _Really?_ ” Jim interrupts, his voice rough and breathy, exasperation mixing interestingly with arousal in his face.  “You’re asking that right now?”

“It’s a legitimate concern.”  He presses his thumb firmly against the slit and maintains the pressure as he traces it, and Jim’s mouth falls open and his hips twitch, his arms pulling hard on Sherlock’s scarf.  “You’ve grown rather less verbal over the last quarter hour, so it falls to me to check in.”

“Shut up,” Jim says through a breathless laugh.  Sherlock returns his thumb to its circling, and Jim gives a low moan, his back arching a bit off the mattress while he curses under his breath.  Aloud, he says, “It’s good.”  Silence for a beat as Sherlock slightly increases the speed of his fingers pushing in and out of him, maintaining the loose grip and slow circling with his other hand, and Jim’s head falls to the side, his knuckles going white again.  “Fuck, it’s good.”

Sherlock quietly enjoys playing with him for a bit, gradually increasing the difference in speed between his hands, observing the preejaculate beading at the tip of Jim’s cock before smearing it around the head.  Jim’s rate of breath steadily increases.  He is shaking again.

Releasing his cock, he reaches up to press two fingers to the pulse in Jim’s neck, measuring it.  It’s already rather fast, consistent with his level of arousal.  When Sherlock relaxes his arm and rests the full weight of his hand on Jim’s jugular, his pulse increases even more.

Experimentally, Sherlock takes a moment to massage the sides of Jim’s throat with his fingers, squeezing just slightly, incidentally, really.  Jim’s eyes spark bright.  He tilts his head back even more, properly presenting his throat, and Sherlock takes the invitation, carefully closing his hand around Jim’s throat and squeezing.  Jim blissfully closes his eyes, his cock twitching hard.  His breath isn’t cut off completely, but it’s deeply labored.  Jim’s whole body arches off the mattress when Sherlock increases the force of his fingers pumping in Jim’s stretched hole, fleetingly hitting his prostate gland.  As Jim’s face begins to redden, Sherlock releases his throat and jabs his fingers at what he thinks is the correct angle, and Jim gasps, “God, _fuck_ ,” and works his hips against Sherlock’s fingers, new sweat shining on his skin.

He’s more than adequately stretched, and he’s shaking quite hard now, so Sherlock slowly pulls his fingers out, watching as Jim whines and clenches around nothing, his hole flushed and gaping open from the stimulation.  He climbs on top of Jim and kisses him, and kisses him, languidly sliding his own erection against his.  They moan quietly into each other’s mouths for a bit before Sherlock readjusts his angle, mouthing at Jim’s jaw and pressing against his entrance.

“Shall I?” he whispers against Jim’s neck.

He grins at the sound of Jim’s scowl.  “I swear to God, you fucking--”  

He stops to gasp when Sherlock nudges the head inside him and waits, not acknowledging the tremble that’s started up in his own muscles as Jim squeezes around him.  Moving back up to speak against Jim’s lips, he observes, “I don’t believe I heard an answer.”

Jim bites Sherlock’s lip, hard but not enough to break the skin, an admonishment.  Then he drops his head back to the pillow, panting, and obligingly whispers back, “Please.”  He looks Sherlock in the eye across centimeters.  “Please, Sherlock.”

Also not insignificant, and Sherlock kisses him for it as he slowly presses the rest of the way inside.  Jim’s moan vibrates their lips, long and broken, and he pulls back to take a few shuddering breaths as Sherlock fully sheathes himself in the impossible heat and pressure of him.  Against his ear, because the effectiveness of this is proven, Sherlock whispers, “Good boy.”  Jim’s hips jerk while he curses again under his breath, and Sherlock kisses his forehead, then rises to a better angle and starts to move.

They fit well together.  Their bodies fit each other.  Their minds.  Their understanding of what this is, what this means.  As a physical act, it means next to nothing but closeness and a rush of pleasure-chemicals.  As a power dynamic, as an experiment, as a form of communication, it means much more.

Jim’s ability to withstand this for so long is impressive.  By now he’s certainly as close to drugged as one can become without drugs, his brain and bloodstream flooded with endorphins, with oxytocin.  This has been a test, too, mutually understood, to see how long Jim can last, how well Sherlock can thwart his willpower.  His eyes seem unwilling to focus now, and as he maintains his rhythm Sherlock fits a hand to his cheek, drawing his attention back.  “Are you with me?”

It takes a moment, but Jim’s gaze lands again, as alert as he can be.  “You--you know I am,” he gasps.

“Will you stay with me if I give you more?”

Jim looks at him a bit like he’s said something stupid, and a bit like he loves him.  “I’ll always stay with you.”

Sherlock kisses him once, twice, then pushes in and grinds slowly inside him as he presses the switch to start the cock ring vibrating.

Jim gasps and thrashes, his body contorting violently, the headboard creaking as he jerks on the scarf.  Sherlock cups his jaw and shushes him, barely moving inside him until Jim begins to settle, his breath fast and shallow and his eyes squeezed shut while his hips buck.  Brushing his cheekbone, Sherlock searches his face and asks, “Do you want it off?”

With effort, Jim shakes his head.  He opens his eyes, wide and dark and wanting.  Whispers, “Fucking pound me.”

Sherlock drops his forehead to Jim’s for a moment, just to breathe with him, to admire him, and then sits back up to oblige.

Within a minute or two they are both gasping, close, the headboard banging steadily into the wall over the quiet, insistent hum of the ring, and Sherlock is clenching his jaw against the telltale tightening of his bollocks.  “Can--” he begins, breathes, and continues, “can you come like this?”

Jim exhales a shuddery laugh, his whole body shaking hard again, his cock leaking all over his stomach, his eyes watering.  “Oh, yeah.”

Sherlock licks his lips and adjusts his angle, and he knows immediately when he’s found the prostate again from the sharp moan and full-body jerk.  He immediately locks in that angle and pushes in deep to grind against it, commanding, “Show me.”

Jim’s moans grow into shouts, his body jerking and writhing, and with a last clench around Sherlock’s cock, he obeys, his bollocks trying to draw up but remaining stretched and locked in place with the still-vibrating ring, his cock twitching hard and shooting semen up to his chest once, twice, and again, then continuing to twitch intermittently as Sherlock pulls back to pound him hard just a few more times until his release hits him, too.  He moans low and pushes deep again, pulsing inside him until he’s spent.

Jim’s body is impossibly tense, his breath a bit too fast, and Sherlock turns off the vibration, then eases the ring off of his softening cock before carefully pulling out, giving him a moment to have his body to himself again, to breathe.  Jim lets go of Sherlock’s scarf and doesn’t seem able or motivated to move his arms much farther, just letting them drop on the pillow, framing his head while he gulps down air, his head lolling to the side.  His hands have been clenched in the fabric long enough that they are still curled a bit, clawlike, and Sherlock takes up one of them and massages circulation back into his palm, then does the same to the other.  Jim is heavy and pliant under his ministrations.  Sherlock is not entirely sure he is conscious.

Setting down his hand, Sherlock smooths Jim’s hair back and moves to get up, but a hand weakly catches his wrist.  

“No,” Jim croaks.

“I’m only running us a bath.”

“No.”

“Postcoital hygiene dictates--”

“Postcoital etiquette trumps.  I’m not swimming in all this oxytocin alone.  Lie the fuck down.”

Huffing, Sherlock obeys, and Jim immediately lurches onto his side to curl against him.  It should not be as endearing as it is.  There is still a slight tremor in his muscles, and a single fading tear-track runs from the corner of his closed eye to his temple.  Sherlock kisses the track, and Jim turns his face sleepily into his neck.  “Just overstimulation, love.”

“I know.”  Sherlock pulls the blanket over them and holds him, and Jim sighs, tangling their legs.  He presses into Sherlock’s hand like a feline when he goes back to stroking his hair.  Staring at the ceiling, Sherlock acknowledges, “I pushed you.”

“Mm-hm.”

“Too far?”

“You can’t imagine how much messier this moment would be if it were.  Besides, I push you all the time.  It was your turn.”  Jim is slurring a bit, certainly dehydrated, but he is present.  “Fuck, you were marvelous.”

Sherlock kisses the top of his head.  “You were impressive.”

“I tend to be.”

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock stays there with him until Jim’s breath indicates he’s starting to drift off, then shifts.  “No.”

Jim makes a cross sound into his shoulder.  “No what?”

“Sleeping.  You need to hydrate.”

“Need a lot of things,” he protests, curling more tightly around Sherlock.  

That only makes it easier to pull an irritated and distinctly unhelpful Jim into a sitting position with him, and Sherlock reaches for the water glass on the end table and brings it to Jim’s lips.  Looking put-upon, Jim wraps his hand over Sherlock’s on the glass and tilts it, taking a few swallows.  They trade off until the glass is empty, and Jim concedes that a bath may be called for.

By the time they’ve rinsed in the shower, run the bath, and settled in the warm water, Jim’s back against his chest, Sherlock is beginning to see the appeal of sleeping.  However, this entire affair began with a conversation and a dare, and Sherlock intends to address both.  Settling his chin on Jim’s shoulder, he says, “So.”

He can hear Jim’s grin in his next exhale.  “All right, all right.  Results are results.”  He takes up Sherlock’s hand, linking their fingers.  “You can have a new code name.  The Virgin is no more.”  He drops a kiss on his knuckles and lowers their hands back into the water, resting on his thigh.  Beneath the water’s surface, Sherlock can already see the purpling mark from his teeth.  He considers brushing his fingers over it, but Jim is boneless against him, exhausted, and he’s not feeling cruel.  

“And its replacement?” he asks.

“Haven’t decided yet.  Still riding out the flood,” Jim murmurs, gesturing to his head.  “Needs to have a flow to it.”  He considers.  “The Ice Man and the Quick Study.”

“Condescending,” Sherlock chides.

Jim chuckles.  “To be fair, we are very good at condescending.  All right...the Ice Man and the Gentle Dom.”  He laughs again when Sherlock clicks his tongue and pinches him.  “Fine, fine.  The Ice Man and the Gentleman?  You really were quite the gentleman, all things considered.”

Sherlock considers.  “Better,” he says between idle kisses to Jim’s neck.  “A bit vague.”

“I’ll keep playing with it.”

Sherlock kisses him under his ear and lifts his lips to brush the shell.  “And I’ll keep playing with you.”

To his immense satisfaction, the telltale shudder runs through Jim’s breath.


End file.
